


Berceuse

by yomgee



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, Dangan Ronpa 3: The End of 希望ヶ峰学園 | The End of Kibougamine Gakuen | End of Hope's Peak High School, Super Dangan Ronpa 2
Genre: Angst, Background SDR2 Cast, Character Study, Childhood Trauma, Dangan Ronpa 3 Spoilers, Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified, Food Issues, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Post-Dangan Ronpa 3: Hope Arc, Super Dangan Ronpa 2 Spoilers, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, a retrospective/exploration of imposter and mitarai's relationship, hinata has a pretty big role in this, i have adopted both mitarai and the imposter they belong to me now thankyou and goodnight, i like to suffer, the rest of the cast are just mentioned, this is basically unhealthy coping mechanisms: the fic, warning this is very angsty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-10
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-16 02:27:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29324691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yomgee/pseuds/yomgee
Summary: ‘…It’s funny really…he always thought himself so unlikeable, so socially inept. And, don’t get me wrong, he was. Socially inept, that is. He was so sheltered, so uncomfortable in his own skin, so unused to basic social cues and niceties and whatnot. But…’Imposter smiled softly to himself, exhaling through his nose in a small, sad laugh.‘…I liked him. I was utterly fond of him. I still am…’--Imposter struggles to keep Mitarai's head above water.
Relationships: Chou Koukou Kyuu no Sagishi | Ultimate Imposter/Mitarai Ryota
Comments: 10
Kudos: 31





	Berceuse

Imposter paused, gulping down a heavy lump of apprehension caught in his throat. His hand hovered before the rectangular door frame, suspended in mid-air for what felt like an eternity as he prepared himself to rap on the wood. Byakuya Togami’s stiff collar and tie felt so much tighter than usual.

He clenched his fist decisively.

‘Ryota?’ he called, tapping on the door gently, yet loud enough that the occupant of the cottage would surely hear, even if he was dozing. Imposter knew he wasn’t dozing. He was wide awake.

The first name still felt so odd on his tongue; the pair had only agreed to dispose of the formality of family names a month or so ago. “Ryota” felt so familiar, so friendly. Almost intrusively so. It was wholly uncomfortable to Imposter to be so close to somebody, but in a way that he was _desperate_ to cling on to.

No response from the other side of the door. A definite rustle of fabric, however, let Imposter know that he was alive, at least.

‘…I was thinking about going to the canteen right about now. I don’t suppose you want to come with?’

Silence.

 _Please just say yes_. The wait for the simple affirmation was stifling, suffocating, choking. All for one simple, simple word. One painfully simplistic, monosyllabic arrangement of letters and sounds. _Just say yes._

_Just say something._

_Dear God, please, just answer me!_

_You have no idea what you’re doing to me! You selfish, selfish child!_

Imposter felt sweat beading on the nape of his neck, gluing organic, jet black hair to strands of synthetic blond wig. He mentally scolded himself at the harshness of his thoughts, silencing himself swiftly.

_That’s not fair, Imposter._

He knew it wasn’t fair.

It was just that, for weeks now, the boy had been closing himself off little by little, even more than what the Imposter was used to from the recluse. What started as him acting generally quieter, sadder, and more spaced out than usual, had developed into him spending increasingly more time holed up in his room. Sometimes he’d come out if people knocked on his door, but more and more often he just…wouldn’t, giving some lazy, transparent excuse that nobody believed. Imposter was usually able to force him out for mealtimes, but Ryota barely had any appetite at all. Over the last few days, he’d turned Imposter away multiple times, claiming that he’d just come a bit later, but never did. Within four entire days now, Imposter had barely seen Ryota once.

The fragment of his heart that yearned to help people, protect people, _rescue_ people, had been aching incessantly, flaring with bouts of nagging anxiety that were becoming harder and harder to balance in his mind. He, as well as every other occupant of Jabberwock, knew that that particular piece of his heart beat the strongest for the timid artist. That being said, it recently felt as though said artist was losing himself to his fragile mental state more and more by the day, and in a way that he had no idea how to control.

It made him feel sick.

The longer the silence stretched on, the more Imposter’s stomach sank.

He wanted to eat something.

‘Ryota?’

Imposter attempted to mask the sadness in his voice. He was good at that.

‘You don’t need to come, but can you just let me know that you’re okay?’

Another rustle of fabric.

‘…I’m okay, Imposter.’

_Finally, a voice!_

The sound was soft, muffled, its tone quavering and unsteady, yet it was like sweet, sweet honey to Imposter’s ears.

‘…B-but I’m not…I’m sorry, I’m just…really tired today _.’_

A pause. The voice spoke again, quietly, tentatively.

‘…Maybe later?’

Imposter grit his teeth.

 _Better than nothing_ , he reckoned.

Except “maybe later” always meant no.

He wanted to eat something.

‘…Okay, no worries. Just…knock on my door when you’re up.’

The voice didn’t answer back. Imposter turned on his heels, the excruciating, gnawing disappointment powering him towards the canteen before he even registered where he was going.

_Don’t be angry._

_You can’t make him do anything._

_You have to give him time._

He chewed at his lip as the same old mantras echoed in the indefinable space between his ears. Mantras that didn’t solve anything, didn’t help anyone, and certainly didn’t help his friend. Yet, as much as it pained him, the other option wouldn’t help either. Pummelling at the door and forcing the stubborn man to stop shutting himself away in such a worrying manner would, in fact, produce the opposite outcome, and Imposter knew it. This wasn’t like before, during their days at Hope’s Peak. They weren’t kids anymore. Both of them had been through so much. Ryota was fragile in a way that frightened Imposter, in a way that he didn’t know how to deal with, and the former animator was trusting him to be patient and kind and understanding right now.

And he was trying. But Ryota’s coping mechanisms were beginning to scare him, to remind him too much of the boy he used to know. The boy who almost died before they even had a chance to meet.

Imposter climbed the stairs to the canteen, his steps louder and faster than he perhaps intended. At least his coping mechanism of choice was something that his body physically required for its continued survival.

_Fats and sugars are all you can trust in the end. They’re uncomplicated. They can’t let you down. They’re always there for you._

At the top of the stairs was a familiar face. Said face lit up as soon as Imposter came into view.

‘Hinata. Good afternoon to you,’ Imposter greeted, allowing a reserved smile to cross his lips.

Hinata was resting tanned forearms on a wooden broom, a dustpan at his feet, along with a pile of dust and crumbs he had clearly been in the middle of sweeping up when Imposter arrived. _Ah, of course._ It was Hinata’s turn to clean up after lunch today. He casually waved an arm in Imposter’s direction.

‘Hey! Good afternoon, Imposter. You here for a snack?’

The mid-afternoon sunlight spilled through the windows, bathing the wood of the tables in hot pools of clean light, illuminating flecks of gleaming white dust drifting through the air. Hinata's single ruby eye sparkled with a rich, buttery blood-orange that almost caused Imposter’s breath to hitch. He cleared his throat, eying the pantry.

‘I am, in fact.’

He paused.

‘…In truth, my mind is…let’s say _preoccupied_ right now. I’m craving something to combat my worries.’

He didn’t quite know why he was cluing Hinata in. Maybe out of some subconscious desire to unburden himself in a way that felt more concrete than just…eating until he felt a bit better. Hinata was trustworthy. He was rational, calm, understanding, but blunt enough that Imposter didn’t have to worry about being told what he wanted to hear.

‘Preoccupied?’ Hinata rested his broom against the wall and approached Imposter, folding his arms over his chest. Classic Hinata, always eager to listen, to help if he possibly could. He pulled out a chair and sat down, beckoning for Imposter to join him. Something in Imposter’s brain was desperate to excuse himself, to grab some instant waffles from the pantry before he sat himself down. He stopped himself; now was the time for _talking_ , not for numbing reality with large quantities of sugar. He could do that later. He sat down.

To his surprise, Hinata started speaking before he had a chance to explain himself.

‘Sorry if I’m being forward but…I have a feeling I already know what you’re going to say.’

Imposter’s eyes widened.

‘You do?’

‘You’re worried about him, aren’t you? About Mitarai?’

Imposter paused.

From somewhere in his throat a breathy, guttural chuckle pushed its way past his lips.

_Classic Hinata._

‘…Observant as ever. I shouldn’t be surprised.’

Imposter’s eyes drifted to the windows, to the source of the scintillating sunlight making his face hot on one side. The fragrant breeze of early summer seemed to carry so much promise, so much hope. Right now, such sentiments felt very distant to Imposter.

‘…He’s…he’s suffering right now. He’s struggling. And, in all honesty, I don’t know what I can do about it.’

He clenched his fist under the table.

_Why can’t you save him? You saved him before._

_Why is everything so different now?_

Hinata looked across at him, sighing understandingly, eyes flashing with sympathy.

‘Yeah…I can’t say I haven’t noticed that he’s barely shown his face recently. We’re all kinda worried, to be honest. Ibuki keeps trying to knock on his door, but he mostly just says that he’s too tired, and Nekomaru has invited him to come training with him, Kazuichi and Fuyuhiko multiple times, but he just…never shows up.’

Imposter couldn’t help but grimace.

‘…When he first joined us it was almost as if…he was riding on pure adrenaline.’ Imposter reminisced. ‘He seemed relatively okay…or as okay as he had any right to be, anyway. He even seemed to be feeling more comfortable around the others. Well, most of them,’

Not the group’s more intimidating members. Not Kuzuryu, not Tanaka, not Saionji.

Not Tsumiki. Never Tsumiki.

‘…But…now it’s like the dust has settled. Now...’

Imposter struggled to find the words.

‘…It’s as if reality has fully dawned on him. And it’s crushing him before my eyes.’

His severe insomnia. His reluctance to eat. The hours upon hours spent alone in his room. This time around, Imposter knew that he wasn’t just busy working, because animation, the art form he used to place in higher esteem than his own life, had been poisoned to him. He confessed as much a little while back, that as little as picking up a pencil to sketch caused him to be overcome with feelings of dread and fear and shame. Hardly surprising.

So, instead of spending all his time working, as far as Imposter can tell, all he did was.

Lie there.

Staring at the ceiling. Allowing his thoughts to consume him, to carry his mind into dangerous, dark places, labyrinths of black, sticky self-hatred where he lost himself and couldn’t find his way out.

‘His mental health has always been…a _frail_ thing. But ever since meeting J-‘

_Junko Enoshima._

The name caught on Imposter’s tongue. For a second, he felt as though, instead of that cursed, wretched, _loathsome_ name, a fount of acerbic bile would escape through his teeth instead. He swallowed, placing a hand on his chest, attempting to push away his sudden nausea.

‘It’s okay,’ Hinata intercepted, pressing his lips together as if he knew exactly how Imposter was feeling. He appeared slightly pale. ‘You don’t need to say it. Please don’t say it. Ever since _that_ happened…’

He gestured for Imposter to continue.

‘…Yes, ever since that happened, ever since that demon _used_ him to her own… _perverse_ and _heinous_ ends, it’s as if whatever black poison swirls around in his head is constantly threatening to swallow him whole. And…I feel like I’m losing him to it. I feel like I’m not strong enough to fend it off this time.’

Hinata hesitantly placed a hand on Imposter’s, causing his clenched fist to unfurl slightly at the touch. Imposter looked back at him appreciatively.

‘…Tell me, Imposter. What was Mitarai like before? When you knew him, I mean?’

Imposter must have looked puzzled, because Hinata hastily spoke again, as if to justify his request.

‘You don’t need to if it’s uncomfortable for you; it’s just that…I feel like I know even less than everyone else here. I wasn’t in your class after all. I don’t even have your impression of him as a reference point.’

Imposter paused. In his head, he drew up the image of the version of Ryota Mitarai that he knew so many years ago. Small, wide-eyed, vulnerable. So naïve. Yet, as he dug around in his head for a brief and simplistic way to describe the Super High School Level Animator to Hinata, he felt his mind fumbling, producing nothing but empty air. Because, at the end of the day, Ryota was just…Ryota. He was a bizarre character to say the least, and, having spent so much time together, the artist’s vast array of quirks, habits and complicated mental hang-ups had just become normal and expected to Imposter, even though nothing about his behaviour or personality in the time they’d known each other could reasonably be categorised as such.

He rested his chin on his palm, wracking his brain. Momentary snapshots of their time together passed behind Imposter’s eyes.

‘…Ryota was…’

Finally, Imposter’s mind settled on a jumping off point.

‘…ever such an anxious person. Awkwardly sweet, in a clumsy, inadvertent way, but so unbearably shy that it should hardly be surprising that he was such a hermit. That was something his Super High School Level talent perfectly complimented, and…it was just too fitting to be a coincidence.’

Hinata looked decently engaged. Imposter continued.

‘He…he mentioned his childhood to me a couple of times, although doing so always seemed to provoke great anxiety in him. He was bullied harshly, enduring all sorts of nastiness from the kids at his school. Beaten up, thrown into the trash, had trash thrown _onto_ him, made fun of for his looks and his physical weakness and his mannerisms...’

Imposter attempted to keep his voice steady. It hurt him to imagine the past the animator had so nervously described, to think of the devastating effect such cruel, childish behaviours would have on the self-esteem of his dearest friend.

_What sort of person would Ryota be if he had never been subjected to that?_

_Would he have been an emotionally healthy high school student, a regular kid who made friends with the rest of the 77 th class, rather than having a professional doppelgänger do that for him? _

Imposter sighed.

‘From what I can gather, his parents were largely unhelpful. They didn’t know how to deal with their son being so cruelly ostracised, or his worsening mental state, or his eventual refusal to attend school, so they just…didn’t deal with it. I always suspected that his childhood left a much bigger scar on him than even he realised. When you begin to trace his… _eccentricities_ back to his feelings of loneliness and rejection as a child, it all starts to make a lot more sense.’

Across the table, Hinata listened attentively, occasionally nodding his head as Imposter spoke but otherwise remaining silent. There was an unmistakable empathy in Hinata’s expression, a deep, profound understanding reflected in the ever-so-slight pressing together of his lips and the richest, darkest tones of his heterochromatic eyes. After all, Hinata knew what it was to feel lonely, to feel worthless, and to be driven to unimaginable lengths to exorcise that pain. He and Ryota were agonizingly similar in that regard.

‘Animation became pure escapism for him. At first just watching it, and then producing it himself. He didn’t have to think about school or other people or his parents because anime was right _there_ to numb the anxieties in his head. An infinite selection of colourful, extravagant, _beautiful_ worlds and characters who couldn’t mistreat or abandon him because they were fixed within the boundaries of the fictional universes they inhabited.’

Imposter recalled all the impassioned speeches Ryota had made to him as he professed his love for anime. When he talked about anime in that way he always used to seem so…wonderfully _alive._ He would let go of his nervousness and awkwardness, even if just for a minute, as he became lost in his own mental library of every great anime he’d ever adored, every instance of exceptional character designs, or breath-taking musical scores, or _mind-bending_ animation styles. How his favourite films as a child were able to make him feel happy and excited about the most mundane minutiae of life, such as riding the bus or frying eggs in a pan.

It was such a sweet thing to watch. Imposter missed that. He missed it so much.

‘In these worlds he felt… _supported_ and _loved_ in a way that he had never been allowed to feel in his everyday life. That’s a potential slippery slope for any child, and as soon as he started making his own animation, I think it all just…got out of control. It became dangerous.’

Hinata seemed to weigh his words carefully before finally speaking up.

‘You’re…referring to his lifestyle? He was a total shut-in, right?’

Imposter exhaled.

‘Yeah. You already know that his goal was to create anime that inspired _hope,_ whatever that denoted in his mind. He decided that it was his destiny, his _calling,_ to become one of the greats in Japanese animation, to produce animation that saved others in the same way that he felt saved. To prevent people like him from feeling alone and afraid. A tall order for teams of professionals in big studios with massive budgets, let alone for one teenage kid. Sure, he had the talent for it. His work was seriously profound stuff; it frequently reduced people to tears…’

Including Imposter. Although he had expertly managed to hide the fact from the animator at the time.

‘…but the workload, as you can imagine, was astronomical. His body couldn’t keep up with it. As you know, Hope’s Peak didn’t force any students to attend classes so long as they continued to hone their respective talents. The school essentially gave him the okay to...habitually overwork himself until he became very, very ill. I still think…if I hadn’t run into him when I did, he might…he might have succumbed to starvation.’

Hinata winced.

Forcing himself to remember how sick Ryota had become…it caused Imposter’s heart to weigh his chest down in the most unpleasant, suffocating way.

‘All that mattered to him was his goal. In his mind, his talent was the only thing that gave him value. His sense of self-worth was so fragmented that, as far as he was concerned, if he couldn’t justify his existence through his talent then he might as well stop existing. Making animation allowed him this…constant, self-perpetuating escapism. He felt himself lacking in intrinsic value, and focusing all of his time and energy on his work allowed him to combat these feelings without having to do any of the hard work in tackling the issues head-on.’

Imposter could hear the stress and worry punctuate his own words, his voice becoming louder and more strained, those painful, familiar worries about Ryota’s mental and physical state echoing through his head as he continued. For a second, he could swear he was back in the animator’s bedroom, watching helplessly as he pushed forward, in spite of his deteriorating focus and audible stomach growls. Imposter bit at the nail on his thumb.

‘He saw himself as inherently unlikeable and uncharismatic, but as long as he was working, he didn’t have _time_ to socialise with others anyway, so what did it matter? He saw himself as _lesser_ than others, as fundamentally lacking and undeserving? Oh well, his disregard for basic self-care rituals such as _eating_ and _sleeping_ could just be attributed to his tight schedule and his laser-focused work ethic, right? It definitely had nothing to do with him subconsciously _punishing_ himself and his body. Through animation, he could run away from his host of _real_ emotional problems. It was like…the more he hated himself, the stronger his drive to finish this project, to show the world, and himself, that he was _worth something after all._ And, as you know, the stronger his motivation, the more he shut himself away, and the more he stubbornly ignored the signs his body was sending him that he was _exhausted._ All of it…it all went hand in hand. Everything…just a product of a devastating lack of self-worth.’

Imposter breathed. So many moments flashed through his mind, all at once. One, in particular, stubbornly refused to leave his head.

_“C-Can you please stop **psychoanalysing** me!?” Mitarai yelled as he wrestled free from Imposter’s tenuous grip on his arm, slamming his tablet pen onto the desk and directing his gaze directly into Imposter’s eyes for the first time in a long while. The pen clattered as it rolled onto the floor._

_He’d never raised his voice like this before. Ever._

_“I don’t need all of this **worry** and **speculation** and…a-and **fear** about ‘oh, oh whatever am I doing to myself’ and ‘y-you’re so unhealthy’ or why or how or…or **anything**! I don’t care! I don’t care about any of it!’_

_He began gripping at the sides of his head, as if attempting to steady himself, to balance the barrage of different inputs assaulting him all at once._

_He looked awful. He looked sick_

_“N-none of any of that stuff matters! I’m…I’m fucking **fine** , I don’t need you **babysitting** me like I’m too stupid to do any of this stuff without your help!”_

_With all his might, Imposter commanded his expression to remain neutral. But he wanted to **shout** , to **scream** , to slap him in his dumb face in the vaguest hope that he might snap out of it. He was such a **brat**. When Imposter finally spoke up, he kept his voice as measured and even as possible._

_“…You’re beyond exhausted. The fact that you’re lashing out at me like this is proof. You haven’t eaten in nearly three days. You haven’t showered in four-“_

**_“Get out of here!”_ ** _Mitarai surged to his feet, his movements awkward and wobbly and unstable like a baby deer, as if his brain was constantly lagging behind. “I don’t want to s-see you right now! I can’t…”_

_He took a second to gather himself, folding his arms around his body. His eyes were wet._

_“I-I can’t **deal** with any of this at the moment! I d-don’t have room in my…in my **head** for any of this stuff! I just want to do my fucking **work. Why is that so hard for everyone to understand?!”**_

The echo of Ryota’s voice in his mind almost caused Imposter to wince. Later on that afternoon, Ryota had broken down, sobbing apologetically for how poorly he’d treated his only friend. Imposter had forgiven him, of course, because how could he not? He’d even bought Imposter some expensive chocolates online to make up for it. Nevertheless, the interaction had always stuck with him. He had never before, and never again, exploded at Imposter with such raw _anger_ and _desperation,_ his feelings of inadequacy and insecurity laid out before him so transparently. Behind the venomous words, his hurt had been so clear. Yes, Imposter had been angry. Blindingly so. But, at the same time, Imposter knew that Ryota hadn’t truly been lashing out at _him._

The room had been silent for a few seconds now, yet Hinata waited patiently for Imposter’s next words. Across the table, he was resting his chin on his hands, his expression serious yet…warm. Reflective. Imposter had always appreciated the man’s ability to just…listen. To be blunt and opinionated when he needed to be, but to give every individual in his presence the space and comfort to express themselves openly. It was one of the qualities that made him such a good leader.

Imposter cleared his throat.

‘…It’s funny really…he always thought himself so _unlikeable_ , so socially inept. And, don’t get me wrong, he was. Socially inept, that is. He was so sheltered, so uncomfortable in his own skin, so unused to basic social cues and niceties and whatnot. But…’

Imposter smiled softly to himself, exhaling through his nose in a small, sad laugh.

‘…I liked him. I was utterly fond of him. I still am…’

Hinata smiled ever so sadly.

‘I know you are, Imposter.’

‘…He was infectiously likeable to me. He was _sweet_ and _funny_ in this endearing, quirky way, where he genuinely had no idea when or why what he was saying was amusing...’

Imposter’s mind was distracted by another snapshot.

_Mitarai spun around in his chair, worrying at his lip in between words._

_“Hey…could I, um…ask a favour of you? While you’re here? And, disclaimer, you don’t n-need to say yes…”_

_Imposter raised a brow._

_“Shoot.”_

_“Could you…like…f-fall over? While I watch you, I mean.”_

_Imposter looked at the animator blankly. The boy opposite him was looking increasingly flushed as a couple seconds of silence passed by. Finally, he ran a hand through his lank, uncombed hair, clearly embarrassed, avoiding eye contact with Imposter._

_“…Ugh, no, I-I **mean,** could I please ask you to…pretend to fall over backwards? As reference for this shot I’m doing? Like, pretend, but also make it look real? While I also film you?”_

_Imposter smirked, exhaling through his nose in a silent laugh._

_“What?_

_“I said you don’t have to! I’m just really stuck right now and I think it’s because I haven’t been able to find p-proper reference footage…”_

_“You know, the Super High School Level Actress is an upperclassman of mine, and she seems pretty nice…wouldn’t she be better for this kind of thing? Especially since her physicality matches your character way more than mine does…I could introduce you if you wanted? Obviously you’d have to pretend to be someone else but-“_

_Mitarai wrinkled his nose and grimaced, causing Imposter to stop in his tracks._

_“Eugh...I d-don’t wanna have to meet anybody new...”_

_Of course._

_“A-anyway, you’re basically even better than the Super High School Level Actress right? You’re like…a-a few levels beyond that, being the **Imposter** and all! Right?”_

_Imposter’s heart fluttered a little, even at such a clumsy and transparent attempt to flatter his ego._

_“I mean…in a way? Yes?”_

_Mitarai flashed him a pair of puppy eyes, looking hopeful. His eyes were very pretty. Sunken and tired, but large and deep and soulful, easily betraying his emotions even when he tried his best to conceal them._

_Imposter paused before sighing to himself._

_“I guess I don’t mind-“_

_“Ah, h-hold on a second!”_

_Mitarai unfolded his legs and hopped up from his chair, scrambling gracelessly over to his bed and heaving his weighty duvet cover and pair of pillows onto the floor._

_“So you don’t hurt yourself or anything! As in, you fall onto the-“_

_“Yeah, yeah, I got it.” Imposter grinned, waving a hand in front of him. “Thank you.”_

_“Ah, t-thank you for helping me! I appreciate it a lot!” he smiled back sweetly, kindly._

_Imposter blushed_

_The pair were filming for forty minutes in total. Every take wasn’t **quite** right, either because Mitarai wasn’t filming at exactly the right angle, or wasn’t holding his phone steady enough, or accidentally forgot to press the record button, or because Imposter wasn’t falling according to Mitarai’s hyper-specific yet simultaneously vague vision._

_“Make it so you…like, your left heel catches on your right foot and you lose your balance, but not too fast! Wait-“_

_He got up and took on the starting pose, shifting his feet and contorting his body to somewhat match what he thought he was describing._

_“And...g-give me…give me…you’re intrigued. No…more like… **entranced.** At the same time as being…mildly c-concerned-”_

_“What does that mean?!”_

_“Ugh, I know how it is in m-my head!”_

The memory of the fun afternoon pulled at the corners of Imposter’s lips. The pair had laughed so much. Uncontrolled, unfiltered belly laughing. Ryota’s laughter wasn’t something he heard often, and it was a glorious sound, like the gentle, melodious chime of a bell, but also peppered with ugly snorts when he really got going. Imposter himself didn’t laugh often either. His constant need to put up a front often prevented him from being able to let go like that. It had felt so _good_ to laugh.

The memory disintegrated when Imposter sternly reminded himself that they were now, in fact, living in the present, where things were a lot more complicated. Fun afternoons like that just…didn’t happen anymore between the pair. His smile fell as he continued speaking.

“…As for that work ethic of his…his determination and one-track mind caused both of us serious problems but…I always found myself in awe of his drive, his sense of purpose. I…’

He felt a twang in his chest.

‘…Back then, I felt completely devoid of a sense of purpose myself. I was wandering from one disguise to another, with my sole motivation to remain as invisible and transient as possible. I didn’t know what I was living for...’

Ryota’s young, smiling face flashed through his mind once again.

‘…But if there’s one thing you could say about Ryota…he certainly knew why he was alive. Quite the opposite of me…that was the only thing he _did_ know for sure. In spite of… _everything_ ; the strain and lasting damage he caused to his body, his utilisation of his talent as a glorified coping mechanism, his _unbearably_ stubborn and dismissive attitude on his off-days that made me want to _throttle_ him…’

Imposter finally felt himself tear up. Just a bit. Enough to hide from Hinata, he thought.

‘…That _burning_ determination to help people…that’s beautiful. Disregarding everything else, that was beautiful to me.’

Hinata smiled warmly, leaning into his hand a bit heavier as he spoke.

‘You can help him get that back, you know. You can do it. To be honest with you…I think you’re the only one here who can.’

‘…I…I don’t know if I can, though.’

Imposter clenched his fist under the table. He felt one push away from excusing himself to fetch something cheap and greasy from the pantry.

‘He feels…broken, Hinata. It’s killing me! I don’t know how to fix him!’

Silence.

Hinata closed his eyes for a second, as if carefully constructing his advice in his head.

‘…May I be a bit blunt with you, Imposter?’ he spoke calmly, shifting his weight in his chair.

‘Yes, please go ahead.’

‘…I think, if you go into this thinking that you’re going to be able to “save” or “fix” him, you’re…you’re setting yourself up for failure.’

The words hurt.

The ache in Imposter’s heart spiked aggressively. Hinata must have read the distress on his face, as he quickly continued speaking before Imposter’s mind could misinterpret his statement too severely.

‘What I mean is, Mitarai is…he’s clearly really struggling to stay afloat right now, just as you said. There’s no use in sugar-coating it. He’s been through…way too much for one person. We all have, you know? All of us have struggled in our own ways with our pasts…’

Yes. Imposter remembered. The way Souda was physically ill in bed for three whole days when he finally regained his memories of his life as a Despair. Imposter is still woken up by panicked screams from his cottage on certain nights. The way Imposter once found Tsumiki alone in the music club, having dissolved into uncontrollable floods of hysterical tears. And not in the way Tsumiki usually cries. Not in the way everyone’s used to. This time it was…terrifying. She could barely breathe. He was _so_ frightened of what she might have done if he didn’t show up when he did. The way Owari was still battling with her eating, trying her best to regain her healthy figure but struggling massively each day. The way Hinata spent hours upon hours upon _hours_ staring listlessly at the ocean. As if doing so might just make _her_ manifest in front of him. Of course, it never did.

Every single one of them had suffered. Every single one of them was still suffering.

‘But what I’m saying is…while “fixing” him might be impossible at this point, you can still _help_ him. You get what I mean? Help him get through the days one at a time until he might be able to stand on his own two feet again. And, honestly, it might take a really, really, _really_ long time, or he might never get there at all. But…I think you can lessen his pain…even if only by the smallest fraction. _That’s_ what he needs from you right now.’

Imposter didn’t know what to say. He felt small. He felt powerless. He hated it. In spite of Hinata’s sincere advice, the solution just felt hollow.

_Just “helping him” isn’t good enough! A “really, really, really long time” is too damn long!_

_Why can’t you just be better?!_

‘Look, I get it,’ Hinata started, leaning back in his chair. ‘You’re somebody that just wants to _protect_ the people around you, even when they don’t ask you to. That instinct is like…the best thing about you, Imposter. We all love that about you. But…that isn’t because you were able to magically _save_ us from our suffering, because that’s kind of impossible. You’ve just been… _there_. In that warm, supportive, comforting way that you are, and that’s more than enough.’

Imposter swallowed, his heart in his throat.

‘And Mitarai…he _adores_ you.’

Imposter waved a hand dismissively. ‘I don’t think that’s true…’

‘No, he does! I’ve seen how he clings to you like you’re a…life raft or something, and how when he’s talking with the rest of us he’s always quietly to looking to you for approval. He trusts you, Imposter. He admires you so much! I think…sure, he’s not the most eloquent in communicating his feelings, but you were there for him when nobody else was.’

The late afternoon sunlight felt especially scorching on Imposter’s back. The sporadic birdsong from outside the canteen’s open windows seemed to echo through the room’s pink-orange haze.

_“You were there for him when nobody else was”, huh…?_

Did Ryota have any idea that the opposite was just as true? That, in stumbling into Imposter’s life as he did, he’d managed to bestow upon Imposter a tangible sense of identity and purpose for the first time in his life?

_“You don’t get it.” Imposter spoke one afternoon, casually chewing on a large muffin. “It’s kind of hard to explain, but the reason I feel the need to steal others’ identities is because I lack one of my own.”_

_Mitarai was silent for a few seconds. His scribbling paused, then picked up again, then hesitated once more. When he finally spoke, his voice wavered, tinged with sadness, but only slightly._

_“I think you have an identity.”_

_Imposter inadvertently inhaled sharply, causing a large glob of muffin to go down the wrong way. Mitarai quickly caught on to his coughing fit, rushing from his chair frantically and thumping him on the back until the chunk of cake dislodged itself. He rushed to his desk to fetch his water bottle._

_“Are you okay?! You really shouldn’t eat so fast!”_

It wasn’t because he’d been eating too fast. It was because the short, seemingly innocuous phrase had resounded in Imposter’s head with such devastating, powerful force, as if his entire world had glitched into absurd unreality. He found great difficulty falling asleep that night, with the perfectly recorded echo of Ryota’s statement ringing in his ears.

“ _I think you have an identity”_

It had felt beyond Imposter’s comprehension at the time. But, as the pair passed day after day together, cramped into that small, dimly lit dorm room, Imposter started to feel the sparks of a true sense of self bubble up inside him, bright and resplendent, a glorious _inferno_. He wanted to _mean_ something to the other boy. He wanted to help him regain his strength when his health inevitably declined again due to overwork. He wanted Ryota to recognise him as his own person, with his own intricacies and nuances and flaws, all of the baggage that came with being human. That begging, gnawing need eventually empowered him to reveal his true face to his classmates; the first time, in fact, he had shown his face to anyone since he decided to take on the mantle of the elusive, mysterious ‘Imposter.’ Without even knowing it, Ryota had done that for him. Just in being his own clumsy, eccentric, lovable self, he had gradually allowed Imposter to become his own entire person.

Could Imposter do the same thing? Just by being by his friend’s side, could he somehow empower him to, slowly but surely, gather up and mend the shattered pieces of himself? Maybe, at the end, some would still be missing, washed away by Jabberwock’s glittering azure tide, lost forever to time and trauma.

_But…but maybe that’s okay._

_Maybe that’s actually enough._

Hinata’s tanned, freckled skin glowed amber in the shafts of golden sunlight that fell over his sturdy form.

‘So…what are you going to do, Imposter?’ His reliable, serious demeanour faltered for a second as he nervously scratched the back of his neck. ‘I hope my advice wasn’t too disappointing.’

Imposter smiled, chuckling to himself.

‘No…no. Thank you very much, Hinata.

It was perfect.’

\--

Imposter knocked on Ryota’s door for the second time that day, being careful not to jog or spill the hot drinks in his hands as he did so.

‘Hey, Ryota? You in there?’

Stupid question. He already knew the answer.

A few beats of silence passed.

‘…Hey, Imposter,’ the gentle, muffled lilt of his voice called back.

Imposter was taken aback; the reply certainly came faster than it had earlier. Hopefully this meant that the artist was feeling a bit better? Imposter could only pray.

‘Can we…hang out?’ Imposter called back. ‘I brought tea.’

Hanamura’s own decadent, creamy chai tea, spiced with vanilla and cinnamon and cardamom and all the most warming, comforting flavours. Imposter had also put multiple marshmallows in Ryota’s; despite his aversion to rich or heavy foods, he had always had a guilty sweet tooth. He used to load his coffee with so much sugar, and sour candy had always been his absolute favourite junk food. Imposter had made Hanamura swear on his life that the tea wasn’t spiked with anything weird. He had tested it himself beforehand just to make sure, and he didn’t _think_ he felt any different. The tea was just… _incredibly_ good.

This time the silence stretched on a bit longer. The sun was starting to go down, the breeze starting to give Imposter chills up his arms and legs.

‘…Said tea’s going to get cold if you’re not careful!’

A few moments passed.

A few more.

‘You did say “maybe later”, remember?’

Silence.

Just as Imposter was about to press even harder, the metallic clank of a lock being turned from the other side of the door blessed his ears. His heart suddenly felt light, fluttering behind his ribs. Slowly and shakily, the door edged open.

In the narrow gap between the door and the frame, half of Ryota’s face came into view. One pale palm rested on the edge of the wood as he hesitantly edged it open. His jagged, uneven nails were picked and bitten to the quick, with a tiny amount of blood dried in the corner of his pinky where he’d clearly torn into the flesh. His grey, dry skin was dotted with occasional red marks shaped like tiny crescents.

_Picking at his skin and nails again…_

_He has so many bad habits._

For the first time in what felt like a tortuous eternity, despite it only having been a day or so since the pair had spoken in person, Ryota stood in front of him. He was still in his pyjama t-shirt and shorts, the latter of which actually belonged to Souda, who had let him borrow them. His t-shirt had some retro game logo printed onto it, the colours faded and peeling after years of wear. He likely hadn’t changed out of them all day. Imposter eyed his hair, half of which was pulled into a sloppy ponytail at the side of his head. In the few months since they’d arrived on Jabberwock, Ryota’s hair had grown out quite a bit, now falling well below the base of his neck. Imposter had asked once whether he wanted it to be cut short, to which Ryota had noncommittally shrugged, looping a lock around his finger and declaring that he was generally indifferent but also “kind of liked it long”. He’d never seemed to mind his own androgyny. In fact, Imposter had always suspected that he secretly quite enjoyed being androgynous, eschewing many traditional visual signifiers of masculinity and feeling very uncomfortable when he witnessed overtly aggressive and macho behaviours, both in fictional anime worlds and in real life. Heck, as a teenager he had often reiterated that he loved anime but not “those ones.” The “weird, gross ones” where women were treated as little more than sexy window dressing, “fodder for audiences of horny teen boys.” It was just another thing Imposter found likeable in him.

As of right now, however, his long tresses of dirty blonde hair appeared lank and flat, ridden with small knots and tangles that would take a session of intense, painful brushing to comb out. He had appeared recently to have lost more weight, with his face looking especially gaunt, the bones in his thin arms and legs especially prominent. Imposter had learned over the years that, when Ryota did put on a bit of weight, it showed on his face first, with his cheeks becoming soft and filled out in the cutest way, causing Imposters heart to melt with pride and satisfaction that he’d been able to somewhat nurse him back to health.

_It’s okay._

_You can do that for him again._

_You **can** help him. You will see that sweet, smiling, carefree face again._

Otherwise, Ryota just looked…pale. Lethargic. _Tired_. His dark under-eye circles still hadn’t faded in the way Imposter had hoped they would have done by now. He’d be so _handsome_ without them, Imposter often mused to himself. He was naturally handsome of course, with a nice bone structure and attractive features. It was just a shame his lack of proper self-care rituals let him down a tad.

Not that any of that actually mattered.

He gave Imposter a tiny smile, little more than the corners of his lips quirking upwards.

‘Hi.’

Imposter smiled back at him, warmly, widely.

‘Good evening.’

The pair stood in silence for a second, as if each one was waiting for the other to speak.

‘…Can I come in?’ Imposer offered, raising both cups of chai. ‘I brought this for you. Hanamura made it, so you know it’s good.’

Ryota’s dull eyes betrayed his lack of energy and enthusiasm, but he nonetheless smiled in that sweet, polite way he always did, gesturing timidly for Imposter to enter the dim room. ‘Y-yeah sure, come in. And thank you, that’s…that’s so nice of you. It smells amazing.’

‘I asked Hanamura to put make yours extra sweet; I know how you are,’ Imposter remarked as he entered the room. The space was much like how he remembered it; decently organised and tidy, with just the bedclothes being half strewn on the floor, as well as one pair of underwear he either hadn’t noticed or didn’t care to pick up and put away. As Imposter entered he switched the light on, the lamp above his head clinking on and off for a few seconds before filling the room with artificial yellow light. It was bizarre being in a room belonging to Ryota and not being surrounded by sketchbooks, tablets and screens, but Imposter happened to know that all his art supplies, (that is, his innumerable sketchbooks and pencils), were shut away in one of his drawers. He didn’t want to think about them right now.

‘Ah, thanks. You can just sit anywhere on the bed, I’m sorry it’s kind of a mess…’

Imposter chuckled. ‘It’s hardly a mess, don’t worry about it.’

The pair sat down, Imposter at the foot of the bed and Ryota leaning against the headboard. He folded his knees to his chest and pulled his covers around his arms, shivering slightly but seeming to warm up as he enveloped his body further in the plush of his duvet and pillows. Imposter sat normally, his feet on the ground, twisting his body as he handed Ryota his cup. It was even in a mug he’d previously expressed a particular liking for, one with a sweet cartoon frog on it, previously having belonged to Tanaka.

Ryota took the steaming mug in both hands, warming his brittle fingers on the hot surface and bringing the drink to his nose, inhaling deeply. His nose and cheeks went slightly pink as he breathed out. His lips fell into a soft smile.

‘Hmmm…’ he sighed deeply. ‘So good…’

Imposter grinned.

‘Right? Wait until you taste it. I kind of already started on mine.’

The room fell into silence. Ryota took deep sips of his drink, seeming to enjoy it just as much as Imposter suspected he would but keeping quiet about it, as if he didn’t want to break the spell of quietness. Silence had never been awkward for the pair. That is, unless they had previously been arguing for whatever reason, which only happened on occasion. Both understood one another to be inherently eccentric, seemingly resulting in the shared, unspoken understanding that social rules deeming extended silences as somehow “awkward” just didn’t factor into their interactions. Both of them were social enigmas almost by design. They had no need for petty social etiquette compelling them to fill every moment of peace with small talk. Imposter calmly consumed his tea, mentally instructing himself to just _enjoy the moment._

The melodic evening birdsong outside. The buzz of Ryota’s lamp overhead. The symphony of sweet, warming flavours dancing on his tongue. The presence of his best friend, the most important person in his life.

It was all he needed. At least in this moment.

Ryota, taking a break from his drink, placed it on his bedside table with a heavy _clunk_ , picking out one slightly melted marshmallow from the sweet, frothy brew and taking a small bite out of it.

‘Hey…Imposter?’

Imposter turned to fully face the man across from him while downing the last of his tea.

‘Sorry about earlier. I…it’s not that I didn’t want to come to the canteen with you or anything, I just…’

He paused, looking down, ashamed to meet Imposter’s eyes. With one hand, he fumbled with the finger joints on the other.

‘…I’ve been feeling…n-not great recently. It’s…nothing against you. You know that, right?’

Imposter’s heart felt gooey. He leaned towards Ryota a bit, resting a large hand on his friend’s folded knee.

‘Of course I know that, Ryota. Please don’t worry yourself, I promise you that I understand. And I’ll never be offended if you just want time to yourself.’

A few beats of silence.

‘Although,’ Imposter started ‘Please know that I’m still going to try my best to keep you generally healthy, even if you tell me not to. Just getting that out of the way. So there’s no confusion.’

Ryota smiled sadly, letting out a tiny laugh in the form of a puff from his nose, still staring at his hands.

‘Yeah…yeah I know. I couldn’t stop you if I tried.’

The atmosphere in the room suddenly felt heavy. Melancholic. Humourless. Imposter’s hand on Ryota’s knee faltered slightly.

‘I do appreciate it, Imposter…I really, _t-truly_ do. I’ll never stop appreciating what you do for me.’

His voice was starting to waver. He directed his stare to the open window across the room from the bed. The sky was rapidly getting darker, the orange-lined clouds of sunset being swallowed by deep, ethereal mauves and indigos. When he lifted his head, Imposter could swear the light reflected in his eyes looked wetter than usual.

‘…Ryota? What’s the matter?’

Ryota was dead still, his gaze transfixed.

‘…I just…I feel so _bad,’_ he whispered, a crack forming in his voice. ‘With e-everything you do for me…how _good_ you are t-to me, and always _have_ been. I…I don’t deserve any of it. Any of this life. W-where I get to just… _atone_ for what I did.. _._ ’

Imposter placed his mug on the floor and, without a single conscious thought, shifted his body to the head of the bed, folding his arms tightly around the young man’s slight form. The former animator’s breath hitched as, finally, tears began to spill from his eyes. Imposter felt the wetness on the back of his neck. Outside, a large wave must have crashed against the shore, as the soft, rhythmic static of the sea resonated throughout the room.

‘You deserve…Ryota, you deserve _everything.’_ Imposter breathed. ‘I’m going to stay by your side until you understand that. And _after_ you understand that. And forever.’

Ryota finally allowed his body to relax into the Imposter’s embrace, wrapping his arms around Imposter’s large torso and gripping the fabric of his suit desperately. Imposter gently stroked his back as he sobbed into his chest. Just like when they had first reunited.

That night, Ryota eventually fell asleep in Imposter’s arms.

**Author's Note:**

> Hi!  
> I haven't actually written fanfic in...a few years. I wrote a bunch of Sagimita fics back when DR3 first aired (which are now orphaned), but recently sat down to rewatch the series in the background as I drew and suddenly became utterly obsessed with Ryota and Imposter all over again lmao. Yes lots of aspects of DR3 are still a dumb mess but tbh in my mind Ryota is the best thing about it; I love him completely separately to DR3. I just find his character so interesting and complex?? in spite of the fact that he was an anime-only character and, relative to game characters, got very little screen time. I could honestly write about him and Imposter forever. Imposter is also super underappreciated/underrated, and I love thinking about his unique sense of identity and his relationship to those he cares about.  
> Basically Ryota is the Ultimate Comfort Character to me, no other comfort character can replace him, and his relationship to Imposter is underrated and so lovely. Writing about them again is exactly what I needed in Pandemic Hell Year 2: Electric Boogaloo.  
> I hope there aren't any big mistakes in this it's half three I need to go to sleep.  
> Thank you for reading!


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